


Grail

by second_skin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Father Holmes - Freeform, Jealousy, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Quest, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For watin77 who saw a portable bar set similar to the one described in this story and asked for a fic to go with it.  This story looks at the relationship between Mycroft Holmes and his father. It needs more chapters, and I'm working on those--I promise.</em><br/>Enormous thanks go to marysutherland and fengirl88 for beta assistance on this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grail

**Author's Note:**

  * For [watin77](https://archiveofourown.org/users/watin77/gifts).



> _Submitted for the October 2011 TGIO challenge for the prompt "out of the ordinary."_

 

"Great idea, Greg. Mycroft once asked Sherlock to find it. Said it was a private matter and he didn't want to use government resources. Sherlock refused--probably because Mycroft wanted it so much." John sipped his Guinness, frowning. Seemed something else was on his mind, so Lestrade nudged him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just . . . We don't know much about their Dad. Hope you don't find anything weird."

Lestrade nodded. He'd had the same worry about digging into family history. But the idea had taken hold, and he wanted to see it through.

*****

Lestrade's search for an out-of the-ordinary birthday gift for Mycroft had become a quest for a small silver cup gone missing for three decades. In his notebook, Lestrade abbreviated it _H.G._ for Holy Grail, just in case Mycroft went snooping. It belonged to a set in Sigur Holmes's leather portable bar, an heirloom Mycroft inherited at age seventeen, after his father's fatal heart attack.

For weeks Lestrade secretly interviewed everyone who knew Mycroft's father--schoolmates, RAF comrades, fellow analysts at the Bank of England--and, God help him, Mummy. He learned that Sigur had been brilliant--of course--but unlike his sons, modest and shy.

Paging through photo albums with Mummy, Lestrade saw fussy pinstripe suits and a ubiquitous umbrella. Practically a family crest, thought Lestrade, recalling the figure of a man with bowler hat and umbrella embossed on the portable bar. Then Mrs. Holmes brought out a box of photos he'd never seen: a wide-eyed, awkward boy at his father's side and a curly-haired toddler held tight in his mother's arms. Clearly Mycroft was his father's favourite; Sherlock was Mummy's. It was plain in their body language and the way Mycroft was beaming at his dad. And after Sigur's death, Mycroft had adopted the man's old-fashioned manners, the burden of protecting Sherlock--even his waistcoats and pocket watch.

His informants all urged Lestrade to find Sigur's protege, Gustavo Meirelles. If anyone knew the whereabouts of the cup, it would be Meirelles. Lestrade had to go only as far as Oxford, where he stood in the bright atrium of Oxfam's headquarters, greeting its tall, elegant finance chief, and flashing his Met ID.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. Delighted. Any friend of the Holmeses . . ." His voice trailed off as they walked into his office. "How are Mycroft and Sherlock? Their father was always so proud of them. Surely they're not in trouble with the police?"

"No, no. I'm here on a private matter. Mycroft is my partner." Meireilles nodded, leaning back in his chair and motioning for Lestrade to continue.

"Sigur had a traveling case that held an art deco bar set. Cocktail shaker, flasks, corkscrew. But something is missing, and  . . ."

Meirelles rose from his chair and went to a small bookcase to retrieve the cup Lestrade was about to describe. "This what you're looking for?"

Lestrade laughed, amazed that the quest had ended so suddenly. "That's it exactly! You've had it all these years?"

"Sigur gave it to me as a souvenir when I left my position with the Bank a few months before his death. He introduced me to fine wine, and I taught him to appreciate rum, so we spent quite a lot of time around bars. I adored the man. He was my champion when I felt everything and everyone was against me. I'm only half-English, obviously. Dark skin. Gay. I was a socialist in Thatcherite Britain, learning the system so I could change it. Bankers aren't the most liberal-minded bunch, as you can imagine. So Sigur regularly had to stop me getting myself sacked."

A question was poised on Lestrade's tongue, but he held it. Shifted in his chair.

"What is it, Inspector?"

"Nothing."

Meirelles smiled and turned the cup over in his hand. "You want to know if there was more than friendship with us. No. He was really like a second father to me." Meirelles turned a framed photo on his desk to face Lestrade. "Look--the three of us: Sigur, Mycroft, and me. Sigur took me with him to Eton one weekend. I gather Mycroft wasn't happy, a bit of a misfit because of his peculiar genius and his desire to control people and situations."

Lestrade couldn't help chuckling. "Yeah, he's still like that. Bloody infuriating sometimes."

Meirelles smiled. "Yes, all that intensity was quite strange and off-putting in a lad of fifteen. And of course, he had the usual fears and confusion of any adolescent. Sigur knew Mycroft was gay, but they never discussed it. Sigur found it difficult to talk about intimate matters, and I think he hoped I would provide a sympathetic ear. But I was young and self-absorbed, so I didn't understand. Mycroft told me he was in love with a boy at school and wanted to run away with him. I'm afraid I really wasn't helpful at all. I played the adult and told him to get that nonsense out of his head, and he was too young to know what love was. God, that's awful, isn't it?"

"Yeah, pretty harsh words for a kid," Greg felt a spike of anger towards the man who'd been so callous--and a knot of sadness in his throat for the young Mycroft he'd never known.

"Well, I left before I could do him any more harm at least. Within a few months I'd taken a new position in Brazil, and . . . then Sigur died so suddenly . . ." Lestrade looked down at his notebook, allowing the man to brush away a few tears, and remove the quaver from his voice.

"Please take the cup to Mycroft. It's only right that it should be with its partners."

Lestrade shook his head. "I've got a better idea."

 

*****

 

On Mycroft's birthday, Lestrade puttered in the kitchen, enjoying the sound of Mycroft and Gustavo laughing in the library. When John and Sherlock and Mummy arrived, Lestrade let Mycroft introduce Gustavo and tell the story of the quest, showing off old photos of himself and his father--and Gustavo as well.

Truth be told, Lestrade found himself feeling a strange, dull tightness in his chest as he watched Mycroft's eyes dancing and saw his fingertips resting on Gustavo's arm, his shoulder, and finally saw Mycroft guide the guests into the dining room with one palm at the small of Gustavo's back. Greg told himself it was bloody stupid to be jealous of an old family friend like that--but he couldn't take his eyes off the pair all night, cataloging every touch and smile.

The celebration included rum cake and champagne in silver cups, and even Sherlock joined in the reminiscing.

As he tidied the kitchen at the end of the evening, Lestrade tried to put that moment of jealousy out of his mind. So what if Mycroft and Gustavo were making plans together? Lestrade didn't like the ballet and posh art galleries anyway. Surely it was good that Mycroft had someone to go with, wasn't it? Someone to bring back good memories of his Dad?

Through the window he saw the two men standing close in the dark, then embracing before Gustavo got into his car and waved goodbye. Greg leaned against the fridge, closed his eyes, and rubbed his chest.

 _Damn_. That was the thing with quests, wasn't it? You set off looking for one simple thing, but you never knew what bloody monsters might be waiting to ambush you along the way.

 


End file.
